Ambuscade
by CaffieneKitty
Summary: It's chased him ever since he was a boy, this thing.


**Content:** Post Series 2. Contains ACD character reference. Depiction of depression. Possibly OOC. Present-tense Sherlock POV.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters or their world.  
**Summary:** It's chased him ever since he was a boy, this _thing_.  
**A/N:**Because it's been far too long and I need to get my gears meshing again. And just because.

-.-  
**Ambuscade**  
_by Caffienekitty_  
-.-

It's chased him ever since he was a boy, this _thing_. Sherlock has enough rationality not to name it or capitalize it, but it remains a _thing_. It steals in, heralded by the end of something good (a case, a worthy adversary) or the beginning of something bad (221B empty but for himself, long days of cold silence and absence yawning onwards, losing the regard of one of the few people in this world who actually matters) or nothing at all (nothing nothing brain turning to rot, useless, purposeless unremarkable nothing).

It takes him, grips him, lays him low, as effective as a bullet. It stops him speaking, stops him thinking about anything but how worthless he is, this _thing_.

Sherlock is motionless in a darkening room, too transfixed by his own loathsomeness to do anything of value or interest in over a week, other than respire and digest the occasional desultory piece of toast.

The door downstairs opens. Footsteps.

Sherlock does nothing. _No one is looking for me anymore. No one that matters._

The sitting room door opens. Light from the landing slashes through, illuminating his shoulder. Breathing. Breathing, and then a voice.

"I've had enough of you playing at being dead to last a hundred lifetimes, Sherlock." John's mild-tense voice doesn't quite shake. He strides through the room, shoes thudding past where Sherlock lay on the sofa.

The _thing _won't let Sherlock speak. For the best; the last time he'd spoken to John after the immediate mayhem of his own return had passed, he'd gathered a black eye and a large dose of furious disdain. Well-deserved, in retrospect.

"Doesn't half reek in here." John throws the curtains open, slides the window up, and turns the lamp on.

Sherlock clenches his eyes shut and turns into the back of the sofa, curling like a pill-bug. Words creak out of him; "Go home."

"Mrs. Hudson called me. Mary agreed I should come by, practically shoved me out the house." John's voice is still firmly mild, with a hint of amusement now, water washing away stone. "You take an army of keepers, you do."

"Don't need a keeper," Sherlock mutters to the sofa cushions.

"I'm only surprised Mycroft hasn't been around after you."

"He has, told him to piss off."

"And that worked did it?"

"Mycroft knows me, to some extent. This has always-" He waves his hand once at the room behind his back, then lets it fall back down. "It passes."

The sofa cushions behind Sherlock's knees dip. Sherlock tenses, not daring to hope.

"Look. I'm not going to say that what you did was in any way right or excusable, but..." John trailed off.

"You've made it quite clear. You'll never forgive me." Sherlock finishes, throat tight with regret more than anything else. "You never want me to darken your doorstep again. You-"

"I was angry, you berk!" John snaps, then softens. "I still am, and you bloody well know why." A breath. "And I know why you thought putting all of us through that, making me watch you- I know now why you think it was justified."

"It could've only been you, John. If it was anyone else, you wouldn't let it rest, you wouldn't believe it was true."

"I still didn't."

"Didn't you?"

John's weight on the sofa shifts, agitation. Mirrored regret? "Well, I never wanted to. You gave a very convincing performance."

Sherlock tilts his head, acknowledges the implicit compliment without risking adding any further pain by seeming arrogant in accepting it.

"I will tell you though, I never once believed that load of tripe you said about being a fake."

Sherlock snorts. "I am though."

"Don't start."

"I fake my way through life. I have since I was a child." The _thing _curls at the base of his mind, familiar embracing foulness. "I craft my reactions and words to gain information or a situational advantage, I spend every waking moment being that which I have deduced will get me what I want from those around me. Never genuine."

Now John snorts. "You aren't that bad. When you're working you're like that, a bit, but you do switch off now and then."

"Only around people I-" Sherlock hunches his shoulders. "Only around certain people. Sometimes. Not often."

The weight on the sofa shifts and John's hand pats his shoulder, once, twice. "Well. I guess I'm honored to be on that 'certain people' list then."

Against his volition, Sherlock's lips twitch into a smile, one he shares only with the back of the sofa.

One more shoulder pat and John stands. "Still keeping the tea in the same place, or is the box full of hair clippings or murderer's toenails already?"

The smile continues. "The tea is tea."

"As it should be."

As John runs water in the kitchen, Sherlock feels the _thing _beginning its retreat back down. He rolls over and puts his feet firmly on the floor.

-.-.-  
(that's all)


End file.
